


You Are Here

by Mon221b (Fangirl_says)



Series: Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - The Handmaid's Tale Fusion, Borrows some elements from The Handmaid's Tale, Gen, Kid Fic, Kidlock, Pre-Johnlock, Rating will change, tags will change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirl_says/pseuds/Mon221b
Summary: John, an omega boy, has come to live at Holmes Manor as the future bond-mate of Lord Holmes' Alpha son, Sherlock, when both are of age.Today is Sherlock's birthday.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594615
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26
Collections: Happy Birthday Sherlock Holmes - 6.1.2020





	You Are Here

**Author's Note:**

> Written in honor of Sherlock Holmes' birthday (6th January, 1854). Will eventually be part of a larger fic that's still being written.
> 
> Thank you to mariaWASD and HPswl_cumbercookie for the lightning-quick beta and general hand-holding, and to scribblesandscreeds for Britpicking!
> 
> 1/9/20: made a few minor edits.

Sherlock stayed at the party for as long as he could possibly bear, which is to say, he slipped away the moment the adults’ backs were turned.

It was insufferable, the whole thing. It was bad enough that garden was filled with noisy, sugar-charged children – one or two of whom were Alphas like himself, which meant they tended to thunder from one end of the estate to the other, leading the beta children in an unruly mob and shoving aside any who dared to resist the boisterous charge. The adults, nearly all of whom were beta, smiled indulgently at this behavior, and shrugged to each other. Alphas would be Alphas, after all. Better that the beta children realized that fact now and learned their place in the world.

Sherlock, who had no desire to charge about for no reason, escaped the mob by feigning a need to visit the bathroom. His intent was go inside, go up to his rooms, lock the door and simply stay there until everyone went away. He’d blown out candles, hadn’t he? He’d sat still while the whole party sang a wildly out-of-tune rendition of ‘Happy Birthday,’ hadn’t he? That would just have to be enough. Sherlock was well done with it all.

Father said he was the boss of his own birthday party, and a boss got to tell everyone else off. Sherlock thought it must surely be so. In just a few years, he would be 13 years old and come of age, and _then_ Sherlock vowed, nobody would ever tell him what to do, ever again. A fully of-age Alpha made the rules. Father said so, and as far as Sherlock could see, it was true.

Sherlock slipped into the house and leaned back against the door as he closed it behind him, sighing with relief as the shouts from the garden were muffled to a much more tolerable level. He tugged impatiently at his tie – another thing he’d never have to bother with again, once he came of age – until he could loosen it a bit, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt. Better and better.

A creaking noise from the top of the staircase made Sherlock go still, his eyes snapping up to find the source of the sound. There was the rustle of heavy fabric, and a red-clad figure disappeared up the stairs.

“John?” Sherlock called, then glanced around quickly. It wouldn’t do to alert anyone that he was indoors and ruin his escape plans. “John!” he called again, in a hoarse whisper. Sherlock hurried up the stairs.

The door to John’s attic rooms was pushed almost closed but left just slightly ajar. When Sherlock knocked, quietly, the heavy door slowly began to swing open, creaking on its hinges.

“Where’d he go?” The shout from downstairs drove Sherlock through the door, silently closing it behind him. Sherlock pressed his ear to the door, listening as the horde of children crashed about downstairs, calling his name, for several minutes. Would they come upstairs? John’s door had no lock, of course. If the others came upstairs, they could easily push in.

Sherlock shot a glance up the narrow attic stairway. On the top stair sat John, the omega boy’s arms wrapped around his pulled-up knees. He was dressed in his formal robes, covered from ankle to neck with the heaviest, stiffest fabric. His hair covering was snowy white, wrapped around his head in intricate patterns that fell over his shoulders and down his back. One errant blonde lock escaped its bindings and rested against John’s forehead. The boy was frightened.

It was a simple deduction to make, given the worried crease between John’s eyebrows and the way his shoulders curled in on himself. It made something stir in Sherlock’s chest – an urge to protect.

“Don’t worry,” he said. John just blinked at him. “I mean to say…I won’t let them in.”

This time John gave a barely-perceptible nod and glanced down at his knees.

Downstairs, Sherlock heard a child shout, “Games! They’re starting games!” A moment later, there was the sound of dozens of feet hammering towards the door and, a moment later, the slam of the front door. Then, the house was quiet.

“I’m sorry, Alpha. Sir.” John’s voice was so quiet Sherlock barely realized he had spoken.

“Sherlock,” he corrected automatically, but at this point he’d begun to think John would never get that right.

“Sherlock,” John replied, his voice wavering. “I’m sorry I…”

For a moment, it seemed John wouldn’t finish the thought, but he took a slow breath before speaking again. “I shouldn’t have been watching. I was supposed to stay in my rooms, I know that. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “It’s fine; Father’s not even home.”

He didn’t miss the way John’s hands gripped harder at his own knees at the mention of Lord Holmes. “It’s a stupid party anyway,” Sherlock said with a shrug. He took a couple of steps up the stairway and then sank down onto a step and looked up at John. “They’re all idiots, the lot of them.”

A corner of John’s mouth quirked up just a bit. “Everyone’s an idiot, next to you,” he ventured.

Sherlock had to smile at that. “Yeah, that’s true,” he agreed. John huffed a laugh and quickly moved to cover the sound, pressing both hands over his mouth. Sherlock couldn’t help snorting at the sight, and soon both boys were shaking with stifled laughter.

“Careful, the idiots will hear you,” John said, and then went still, as though remembering himself. His eyes were suddenly wide and frightened again. “I’m—

“Don’t say it!” Sherlock interrupted. “Don’t say, ‘I’m sorry;’ just don’t. You’re right; they _are_ idiots.”

John was shaking his head, but he glanced at Sherlock, who was still smiling gamely. “Okay,” he said. “As you say, Alph- um. Sh-Sherlock.”

For a few minutes they sat in companionable quiet, listening to the rise and fall of the children’s voices in the garden.

Finally, John seemed to stir himself. “Um. I, um. I, uh, have something.” He kept his eyes on Sherlock, as if waiting for permission.

Sherlock shrugged. “What is it?” he said.

John stood and disappeared back into his rooms. He was gone so long that Sherlock started to wonder if he was meant to follow. Finally, though, John reappeared at the top of the stairs, clutching a folded piece of paper. Hesitating a bit, John edged closer, settling himself down just one step above Sherlock.

For a moment, John held the paper, smoothing the fold where it had been wrinkled. “It’s your birthday, Sir,” John said at last.

Sherlock bit his tongue on a sarcastic remark and waited.

“And I just. I made you this,” John said in a rush, and shoved the paper into Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock blinked from the paper he was holding and back up to John, who now sat twisting his robes in his hands. “Oh,” Sherlock said, stupidly.

He opened the sheaf of school paper – obviously torn from the exercise book Sherlock had given John to practice his lettering in – and smoothed it flat against his knees. Most of the page was filled with a large, irregular, pencil-drawn shape. Inside the shape was written in uneven, clumsy lettering: YOU ARE HERE. Sherlock glanced back up at John.

“It’s, you know. A heart. A proper heart, like in the book. Like in you. And in me,” John said.

“Oh,” Sherlock said stupidly again.

“You don’t like it,” John said.

Sherlock looked up sharply. “No, I do,” he said. “It’s good. I like it. A proper heart.” He smiled a little.

“But…,” John prompted.

Sherlock shrugged. “You didn’t have to get me something.”

“But I’m your--,” John began, and then began again. “You’re my—”

“Your friend. I’m your friend,” Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded, a blush creeping into his cheeks as he glanced away. “Yes, Sir. You’re my friend.”


End file.
